“Do not grow old, no matter how long you live. Never cease to stand like curious children before the Great Mystery into which we’re born.” Albert Einstein
I finally got it, after well over a month of not being able to write. The reason(s) for that is part of this journey of mine, a word I hope I don’t abuse going forward. Although, I have been up to my ass in a kind of darkness, this act alone is a true ray of light.
Frankly, I have no idea where to begin. One of the things I have had too much of is time and that is just a bad fucken idea, especially for me. I have had this way of writing for a long time now. It is definitely not streaming consciousness. It is more like a kind of meandering creek. This will likely be written exactly like that, because it’s the only way I know how to write. I simply cannot write impersonally. I’ll always get in the way. Now, why I just wandered off about my writing style, I don’t know.
I suppose I’m in no real hurry, because I have a feeling this could be a long story. Frankly, I haven’t wanted to write. I couldn’t think of what to say. Even though, I always write about me in every story, I just didn’t feel like talking about it. I have always been careful to never end my stories with an elevator crash. Right now, this story of mine is not very happy. I must say this right up front. There is one person I love with all my heart. My two boys are in the fight. The older boy is the father of the much younger boy, my grandson. Of course, there is my brother. Now, this part is already ridiculous. What I may be going through is definitely not because of any of them. So, I don’t want to hear any shit about it.
This is my journey.
Now, if I were you and I have already been sucked into several paragraphs, I’d wanna know why now? Well, I am so glad you asked. Tomorrow, I am seeing a therapist. It just struck me that if I was going to write again, it would have to be about this huge elephant in my room and my lame attempt to begin opening the exit door. To me, without movement of some kind, there is nothing to tell.
I guess you could call what I have written to this point, the diary of a mind. Of course, as none of you know, it is part of the title of my worst-selling memoir, Halloween in Portland-Diary of a Mind. No, I am not about to go there, with the exception of one thing. I had never really written to that point and I was already 67 years old. It was a huge deal, believe me. The sole reason for this undertaking was the belief that the only gift I’ll ever have for my grandson is the life I have lived. I remember writing that the most important thing to me was sitting down a second time to continue. I have been kind of going ever since.
I was just outside, doing something called, “Pitch ’n Catch”. I know, I know, you can’t wait for me to tell you. It is complicated, so bear with me. There is this rectangular, spider web of these mechanically woven cells. Oh screw it, it is like a tennis racquet. You throw a ball at this rectangle and it will bounce the ball back to you.
Now, all that came about, because one day I realized I hadn’t had a catch in decades. As a kid, on my street in Queens, it wasn’t unheard of for one friend to ask the other,” Hey you wanna have catch?” As a young Dad, I tried to feign the athleticism I had never experienced as a youngster. It didn’t take long until either one of them could run circles around me. Admittedly, I was a pretty low fucken bar.
Obviously, I am kind of killing time here. I’ll bet you like this one, especially if you were me. Tomorrow at 11:30, I pay my first visit to an attorney, regarding my Will, which I wish I could type with wavy lettering. As luck would have it, my mortality harpooned my mind not all that long ago. Then, in the true fashion of Endings and Beginnings, I see my therapist for the first time at 2. How is that for bookends? At first glance, it really ought to be the other way around. I suppose from a therapist’s standpoint, it couldn’t be more perfect. It is a full meal for the gut, ready to be served.
Speaking of my therapist, I am a bit of a veteran, having spent my 30’s with two very different practitioners. The first time I went, being in therapy still had this stigma about it, but it was pretty much big city gone. It was long before latte’s and the tons of other too “modern” ways. Christ, it was decades before Tik Tok, which is just mimicking the passage of time!
You know, I have to remember to always respect your time. I am not doing this shit for me, although there is a good argument to be made on its behalf. I have always kind of written in bursts, not the lunatic kind either. When I feel it is time to stop, that’s what we’ll do. When I come back, I really hope I don’t fuck with what I have already written.
Well kids, this kind of feels like the very first day I sat down to write. This time, there is not a doubt in mind there’ll be a Day 2 and so on.
Yes, it is me my minions. No, it is not the day after the first entry. I always remember when I was writing, very often something would transpire and find its way into the story. I’ll be son of a bitch, it happened just this afternoon. Trust me, my overall emotional state has not taken its thumb off the scale. However, what ended up being a slight let up on the thumb pressure, gave me the impetus to do this now. It was totally unexpected, not even whirling around in my noisy brain.
Right outside the supermarket and amongst pretty, good gusts, courtesy of the trades, an old friend appeared from around a corner. I’ve always liked the guy and have found him to be really bright and articulate. Of course, he wanted to know what I was doing, which required a very short response, easily defined by one word, nothing. While he knows I write, he just automatically associates me with the now defunct, beer company.
I launched into a tirade about how it is the most difficult business imaginable and how it is the last thing I could ever think about doing again. The only commercial exercise I want to do is write. Last time I checked, you can actually do it while in a chair.
The only thing I talk about now is writing. Of course, there is the question of income. Excuse me, while I leave the room.
Inevitably, my contribution to work talk, was about wanting to write and that’s all. I’ll be a son of a bitch, completely blown in by the wind, he says he may have some work for me. I have already written to him personally to tell him he is in this story, but it couldn’t be more anonymous. So far, I am doing pretty good in that regard. As much as I hate to say it, ultimately, all these damn stories are about me anyway.
I would not have included the entirety of the above if I didn’t believe it belonged here. Man, that’s probably a dumb thing to say anyway. I really don’t want to keep going endlessly. So, I just had this idea that I would continue this story, if you wanted me to.
I’ve never given a shit before and now I do.
How’s that?
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https://www.buzzsprout.com/admin/1292459/episodes/19230947-an-old-man-s-journey